


Nothing Remains (But the Cry of My Hate)

by Simply_Isnt_On



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-14
Updated: 2014-09-14
Packaged: 2018-02-17 10:40:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 534
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2306720
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Simply_Isnt_On/pseuds/Simply_Isnt_On
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Some days, John can feel something coming before it hits.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Nothing Remains (But the Cry of My Hate)

The feeling that something was oncoming had been haunting him all day. As he showered, brushed his teeth, dragged his razor down his cheeks, he could feel how his skin set wrong against his bones, too tight, too hot. Something was coming.

It escalated when he was doing dishes. He picked up a mug to wash and knocked aside a spoon by accident, and the harsh, resounding  _*CLANG*_  had the mug shattering on the floor as John was yanked back into Afghanistan. There was sand everywhere, people were shouting, bullets whizzed past his head. There was too much sand, not enough air, and it was crushing him, he was going to be buried by it. It washed over him until he was hyperventilating, unable to register the shards of ceramic digging into his palms, making them bleed, or the way his leg twisted under him, uncomfortable on aging joints and yet unavoidable.

Then there was a cool hand against his cheek, and he batted it away in confusion, before it gripped his wrists in a strong grip. No matter how he struggled he couldn't get free, and then there was another hand on his shoulder and a low murmuring voice was talking too him. Slowly the rushing faded in his ears, and he could hear the voice scattering his name throughout the words. 

"-and I promise you, John, whoever it is is safe. John? John this isn't Afghanistan. You're in London, in 221B Baker Street. I'm your flatmate, John, we live together. We chase criminals, John, and your limp is gone. Sometimes..." The voice went on and on, soothing and calm and so deep, and then John took a deep breath and started crying. He tried to pull his hands away to cover his face, ashamed to be seen in the midst of a panic attack, but Sherlock simply pressed a handkerchief to his face and let him cry. And then the man helped him up with a hand on his elbow, guided him into a kitchen chair and cleaned the cuts on his hands. John looked at them and thought, dully, that he'd need tetanus shots for the deeper ones.

When his palms and fingers stung with antiseptic and were wrapped in gauze, Sherlock released his wrists and set a mug of tea before him. "I've phoned Ella- she said you should come when you've calmed down a bit." And he helped him up and into his coat, handed him his phone and his keys and John walked down the stairs and out of the flat, hailing a cab which he wouldn't do except it was one of those days, and he didn't think he could face the crowds.

Three hours later he walked slowly back up the steps of Baker Street, having stopped at the clinic on the way back from therapy, and the lights were on because the sun was setting, and Sherlock was on the couch, in his mind palace. He went and had a shower and went to bed, and the next day he got up and when Sherlock said nothing about the previous day's events, John felt something click into place in the flat. Yes, this was home.


End file.
